A Swift Kick
by Hecate of the Crossroads
Summary: Ever notice how it never seems to occur to anyone that perhaps physically attacking the enemy might work?


I don't think that I ever really believed that I had learned anything in those self-defense lessons my dad   
made me take in middle school, but was I ever glad to be wrong. I certainly hadn't expected to use those   
latent skills during my junior year sojourn in Tokyo, but when I rounded that corner and saw the sleazy-  
looking man beating the crap out of a scrawny little guy, I acted without thinking. (Contrary to popular   
belief, I do usually think before I act. It just doesn't seem like it.) I snuck up behind the big guy and quietly   
kicked him in the back. I didn't quite kick him hard enough to fell him, and he turned around to face me. He   
gave me a vaguely sleazy smile (I think it was intended to be charming) and started to open his mouth.   
Before he ooze out a word, I shoved my foot into his crotch. His eyes bugged out and he squeaked before   
collapsing. I grabbed the little guy's hand.  
  
"Come on!" I yelled (in English, my native tongue), yanking him. He yelped, but stumbled along behind   
me. I ran until I saw a fast-food place, which I pulled him into. We stood panting in the doorway for a   
moment before he looked over at me.  
  
"You ok?" I asked. He gave me a blank look, and I repeated myself in my oh-so-lovely Japanese.  
  
"Yeah," he said, "Thanks."  
  
"No prob," I answered. We spent an awkward moment before I asked him why he hadn't fought back. He   
blinked large purplish eyes at me.  
  
"I was," he said, "But Fuuma's...well, we're both about equal as far as mystic powers go, but --"  
  
"Woah woah woah," I said, putting up a hand to stop him, "Mystic powers?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"He was cutting you with pieces of glass and you were using your mystic powers?!"  
  
"Of course," he said with a sad little shrug.  
  
"Look, I don't mean to be picky, but I don't have any 'mystic powers', and I fought him just fine," I said   
dryly.   
  
The boy's eyes began to sparkle.  
  
"That was so cool!" he enthused, "I wish I could do that!"  
  
I stared at him.   
  
"Um, sorry to burst your bubble," I said, "but you could have. You can."  
  
The little guy wiped blood from his face. He was bleeding pretty badly, I realized, and reached into my bag   
for bandaids and neosporin. I forced him into a chair, ordered two sodas so we wouldn't get evicted, and   
started patching him up. He seemed to be thinking pretty hard. After a bit he spoke again.  
  
"I don't think so," he said, "I don't think that's how it works."  
  
"Why?" I asked, smearing goo on a cut.  
  
"Because I'm Kamui," he said, a little guardedly.  
  
"And I'm Lucy," I replied, applying the final bandaid, "So?"  
  
I sat down across from him and picked up my drink.  
  
"But the Fate of the World isn't on your shoulders," he said glumly.  
  
I sipped my soda and considered him.  
  
"How old are you, Kamui?" I asked.  
  
"Fifteen. You?"  
  
"Twenty-one. Look, I know it feels like the world's on your shoulders, because I felt that way when I was   
fifteen, but --"  
  
"No, you don't understand!" he yelled, slamming his hands on the table and knocking his drink over, "I   
really do!!"  
  
"Come on, Kamui, aren't you being a little melodramatic?"  
  
"NO," he said. I sighed. He watched his soda spread across the tabletop for a bit. Then he looked up at me.   
His eyes burned. (And I swear that's not a metaphor. I saw flames.)  
  
"Lucy-san," he said. He pronounced my name "Lushii".  
  
"Lucy-san, come take a walk with me."  
  
"Uh, why?"  
  
"So I can prove it to you."  
  
I shrugged and stood, shouldering my bag.  
  
"What the hell. Sure," I said, gesturing for him to preceed me. He gave me an unreadable look, but led on.   
Once we were walking, he seemed to feel the need to make conversation.  
  
"So where are you from, Lucy-san?" he asked.  
  
"New England," I told him, "I'm spending my junior year of college here."  
  
"New England, hun," he mused, "That's --"  
  
"Oh, Kamuiii..." a voice drooled.  
  
We turned around. Our little (ok, not so little) friend from earlier was back, along with a one-eyed guy who   
looked like the Businessman From Hell.  
  
"Are you ready, Kamui? To fight for the end of the world?"  
  
Kamui turned liquid eyes to me.  
  
"You see?" he said plaintively.  
  
"It really is too bad that your foreign friend here will have to die too," the Oozer continued with a definite   
lack of regret, "Seishiro, can you take care of her?"  
  
He moved a leg subtly to shield his groin. The businessman gave me a friendly smile.  
  
"Hello," he said in English, "I'm Seishiro Sakurazuka. And you are?"  
  
"Lucy Evans," I said cautiously.  
  
"Lovely to meet you, Miss Evans. And now you will die."  
  
He advanced. I could sense Kamui's eyes skittering towards me as he fought his own adversary. Mine own   
smiled benignly.  
  
"Oh, like hell," I muttered, and rammed my elbow into his gut. The breath went out of him, giving me the   
chance to nail him in the nuts with my knee while I punched him in the jaw. Clearly he wasn't expecting   
either, because he dropped like a rock. I kicked him a few times for good measure. When I looked over,   
Kamui and his assailant were staring at me.  
  
"Lucy-san," Kamui said, awe in his voice, "You just took down the best assassin in Japan!"  
  
I shrugged.  
  
"He can't have been THAT good," I said, "He didn't block any of my punches."  
  
"Because he was expecting you to attack with --"  
  
"Kamui, if you start that mystic powers crap again, I'm going to kick you."  
  
Both he and the other guy paled. Then Kamui turned and knocked the big guy upside the head. He   
crumpled.  
  
"Ow," Kamui said, wringing his hand.  
  
"See how easy that was?" I said, clapping him on the shoulder, "Come on, I'll buy you an ice cream."  
  
*  
  
A couple months later, I recieved this letter:  
  
Dear Lucy-san,  
Thanks so much for your help. Thanks to you, the world is safe.  
Sincerly,  
Shiro Kamui  
  
Attatched was a picture. It showed Kamui and six other people standing in front of seven very beaten-up   
bodies. Kamui was flashing the victory sign.  
  
My roomate glanced over my shoulder.  
  
"Oh, he's cute, Luce," she said, "Who is he?"  
  
"Just some nut I met in Japan," I replied, tossing the letter away, "Just a nut."  



End file.
